


The Sweetness of Corruption

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Interweaving narrative, Intrigue, M/M, POV Multiple, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets, lies, love and illegality...all part of what's on tap in 1920's Chicago, where the gin is cold and the guns are hot, and everyone seeks to play a winning hand in an every more dangerous game. </p>
<p>Multiple pairings (rare and otherwise), interconnected vignettes from various POV, with a heavy amount of smut. New chapters added as edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Romano & Antonio, 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each story is part of one universe, which is takes place in Chicago in 1926. Most chapters were written originally in 2012-2013 as part of a defunct Tumblr project and I am now archiving here for my own reference and in the hopes of adding more to flesh out the plot. 
> 
> I'll label each chapter with the pairings or characters involved.

There were many days that Antonio Carriedo enjoyed working for Francis Bonnefoy. His editor-in-chief was charming, permissive, and had an enviable and uncanny ability to know just where the next big story was going to break and just how to milk the scandal for every inch of newsprint. His skill was so great that their subscribers were convinced that every fanciful turn of the Chicago news in Francis’ hands was God’s honest truth. Francis was so good at spin, that Antonio had worked for him for more years than he liked to admit before he had realized his boss was taking his earnest, if sometimes optimistic, accounts of Chicago’s stories and weaving honest threads into whatever pattern suited Francis and his powerful benefactors best.

But Francis liked him, liked his smile and his pretty face, and, as he had told Antonio one night while they smoked and reviewed copy for the big Sunday scoop, Francis liked that other people liked Antonio so much. According to Francis _likeability_ was an incredibly useful and rare talent to have in their wonderfully corrupt city--and what kind of editor would he be if he let Antonio waste his allure on little fish when his good looks and his affability could be used to bait much more interesting prey.

Antonio had wanted the promotion and had wanted the chance to write something that might one day matter, so he’d let Francis string him along, aligning their fates in the hopes of Francis someday giving him a peek at Chicago’s deck of cards. Whether Francis chose to believe that Antonio was a cheerful pawn ready to be exploited or suspected that Antonio had motives of his own but considered them harmless enough not to derail his larger schemes, Antonio couldn’t say…but this was Chicago and exploitation was the name of the game.

Working for Francis had been good to him, Antonio knew; had given him ins with all the big families. And once he’d been let through countless back-doors, handed a glass of the illicit liquor that ran the town, and offered a smoke, Antonio had heeded Francis’ advice and let his smile and willingness to look the other way, to forget a name here and there, gain him some of the biggest scoops in town. In exchange for a wink and a nod, he’d come to an understanding with the kinds of men who would sooner put a bullet in a snitches’ head or grease the palm of a handsome, lackadaisical journalist than let the Feds catch on to exactly what was on the Windy City wind.

In the seediness and uncertainty of a city teeming with rumors of rum-runners and their guns, Antonio had managed to walk a very fine line between honesty and corruption, telling near truths in his articles while letting the mobsters that whispered in his ear tell him what would be best forgotten as they plied him with pretty wine and even prettier people. He’d profited from men who marked their profits in illegal ledgers and gotten caught up in a game that only ever ended behind bars or six feet deep, but it was hard to resist the allure of the underworld when it shone so bright and felt so good. These were wild, heady times in a country that was booming while the rest of the world tried to heal its wounds, and Antonio knew there was always a place for a self-made man in America if you knew how to smile just right.

But there were other days that working for Francis Bonnefoy, a man who thought two steps ahead and had little patience for pawns that tried to play another game, was not so pleasant. Days like today, when Francis decided that he’d grown bored with playing for such low-stakes when he could scent the big fish in the water and suddenly remembered that he had just the lure to start the hunt. Though Antonio had tried to smile blithely and scratch his head in ignorance confusion when Francis had mentioned a rumor he’d heard whispered about  Antonio’s new Italian friend with certain Dutch connections, Francis hadn’t been fooled for a moment. With a soft dismissal that was the prettiest kind of threat, Francis had strongly recommended that Antonio use _every_ means available to try and rake up more information on the elusive Van Rijn.

Oh, certainly, Antonio thought with a sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking towards the Plum Lounge, Francis had made his request with a smile, but even he wasn’t so stupid that he thought he had any choice in the matter…not if he wanted to keep his job or his reputation. And though the name Van Rijn gave everyone in Chicago _but_ Francis pause, it wasn’t the unsettling fear of a dangerous man that caused Antonio’s stomach to twist in unpleasant knots, nor was it the strange preemptive guilt he felt for doing the same thing he did to countless people every day.

No, he could only chalk up his nausea to a desperate need to delay ruining the one good thing he had going within the seediest depths of Chicago corruption.

It was sweet, even if it was carried out in secret shadows and made of half-truths and so many lies. It was more dangerous than Van Rijn, more powerful than Francis, and more tempting than all the money that slipped under tables and into his palm. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for his relationship (not that he would ever, ever, ever, speak such a word aloud, not even if it made pretty eyes snap with embarrassed anger, because he liked his feet on the ground and not at the bottom of the lake) with Romano Vargas, Chicago’s new boss of bootlegged liquor.

Romano Vargas, who had hated him from the first moment Antonio strolled into his club, when he had ordered his usual and quickly found himself on the receiving end of a gun and the cutest snarl he’d ever seen. Romano, who had taken months of slow, steady charm to open his frowning, angry mouth and tell Antonio all the little secrets Antonio did and didn’t need to know. Romano, who softened somehow when he talked about Sicily, his voice still thick with the sounds of the old country, and who employed a man he loathed because he once took a bullet for his sweet little brother. Romano, who had snatched the reins of his grandfather’s empire and ran it ruthlessly but never cruelly. Romano, who now handed Antonio his illegal liquor personally and always, always had time for his favorite newsman, because they had…an understanding.

And now Antonio was supposed to take that understanding, take those reluctant smiles and Romano’s fleeting, hesitant  touches and knot him up in lust and longing until he told Antonio what Francis demanded to know about Van Rijn.

It really was a shame, Antonio thought as he pushed through the door to a darkened club empty at midday, that he and Romano should both be pawns in a dirty game, subject to the machinations of others.

After all, what chance did love stand against such corruption?

Antonio found Romano in the back room behind the bar, Romano’s kingdom and refuge from the hustle and bustle that started every night at 8pm and danced on until the early hours of the morning. Antonio smiled wistfully as he pushed back the heavy velvet curtain that separated the empty false innocence of the speakeasy from Romano’s private lair, thinking how odd it was that a man who tried to dislike everyone had come to run the most popular gin joint in town.

He held his breath and stilled at the threshold, letting the curtain fall closed once more, wanting to watch Romano at work for as long as this pretend silence would hold…wishing he had some way to please both his master's, feeling as though to betray either was to cut out a piece of his heart. Romano was at his desk, shirt sleeves already rolled to his elbows, dark red tie loosened and rumpled like it so often was when Antonio finally stopped kissing him at the end of their meetings, before he was banished into the cold Chicago night and denied his greedy, impossible desire to monopolize all of Romano’s attention. Romano kept at his work without looking up to acknowledge his intruder, the king making his supplicant wait while he maneuvered his holdings and fought his illicit, illegal territory war.

The room was dark, winter light kept from the windows by shutters closed in the afternoon, and Antonio’s smile turned fonder and full of sad desire with each note of Vivaldi that filled the silence. He knew the phonograph was Feliciano’s, a treasured piece of home, just as he knew that Romano refused to admit he enjoyed any piece but “Summer: Presto, ” just as he knew that Romano hummed the tune under his breath when he woke in the morning; slivers of knowledge that taunted him with all that Antonio would never have for always because Romano lived in a world that rarely made space for outsiders with ulterior motives.

Antonio breathed in and out, watched and waited, enjoying the sound of Vivaldi and the tense, arch of Romano’s back as he dragged pen over paper and remained resolute in ignoring Antonio’s silent overtures.

So determined to be angry even when he was soft, Antonio’s dangerous doll.

“You’re fucking late,” Romano growled without raising his head, finally breaking the stalemate between them and forcing Antonio into reluctant, conflicted action.

“Sorry, sorry,” Antonio said, pushing away from the velvet to approach Romano like he were a cat in danger of baring its claws should Antonio come too close too quickly. “I got caught up at work, you see,  there was this--”

“I didn’t ask why you were late, bastard,” Romano snapped, finally favoring Antonio with the hot anger of his gaze. His lips pursed around something foreign as he looked Antonio up and down and muttered, “You’re always fucking late. Don’t know why I should have thought this time would be any different.”

Antonio laughed through his hesitancy, weighed down by some unexplained tension as he set his hat down on Romano’s desk and he came near enough to kiss the irritated redness of Romano’s cheeks.

“I’m a creature of habit. Bad habits included.”

Romano, who had always been endearingly predictable in all his outrage and blushing violence, betrayed their routine, knotting his fingers in Antonio’s tie and pulling him sharply forwards so Antonio’s mouth slid from cheek to lips. His mouth fell open with surprise as Romano kissed him in the way that normally took the better part of an evening and more than one drink to earn. It was a messy, desperate kiss that was half affection and half something to prove, unyielding but also uncertain, and wholly undeniable in how it warmed and muddled each and everyone of Antonio’s better thoughts.

Surprised, but never one to forgo an opportunity to enjoy what pleasures Romano deigned to give, helpless against Romano when he was like this, needy and defiant,, Antonio let his worries about Van Rijn slip from his mind, replaced entirely by the taste of Romano’s kiss. As abruptly as the kiss began, it ended. To his disappointment, wishing they could have remained tangled in such an embrace, Romano shoved him away with a curse that sounded unusually bitter.

“Sit the fuck down and shut-up.” Romano turned his flushed face from Antonio’s wandering hands. “I’ve got shit to finish before I can deal with you.”

“Of course,” Antonio answered softly, stung but never deterred by Romano’s tempestuous affections. “But can I tell you that you taste really good?”

Romano’s pen stuttered on the page and Antonio wanted to kiss the incredulity from his mouth when Romano looked away.

“Who the fuck says those sorts of things?”

“Me.”

“Sentimental bastard.” Romano stared at him when he thought Antonio was no longer looking, mistaking his happy humming for distraction, before sighing and pointing a reluctant finger at the glass on the edge of the desk, “Blame it on the wine.”

“Wine?” Antonio asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his tone, wondering how it was Chicago’s master of moonshine was drinking wine that was the color of crushed velvet and tasted nothing like the fake-communion wine the Californians secreted across their border.

Romano eyed him, amusement evident beneath his permanent scowl as he reached for his glass and inhaled deeply. “Real shit, too. From Sicily. From home.”

The newsman in Antonio knew this was a lead worth following. The lover in him wanted to know who was responsible for the taste in Romano’s mouth.

“A gift?”

Romano gave him a smoky, veiled gaze, swirling the colors of plum over the rim of the glass, murmuring darkly, “More like a reminder.”

Antonio shifted closer, envious and undeniably curious, wetting his lips just to listen to the reassuring hitch of Romano’s breathing. “From an admirer?”

Romano scoffed and peered at him through his eyelashes for a long moment, drawing Antonio closer with the mysteries he held on the tip of a tongue that confessed, “From a partner.”

The name Van Rijn was right there, in the inches that separated their mouths, sweet and dangerous and everything he didn’t want but had to have. And though he could tell the same name was written in the challenge of Romano’s unwavering gaze,  the syllables wouldn’t come.

Not when Romano shook his head slowly and asked him in a voice roughened by desire, accent thickened in that way that Antonio only ever heard when Romano was panting and loose and beautiful in the aftermath of pleasure:

“Want to try some, bastard?”

Antonio’s throat went dry, suddenly parched for what Romano was offering so freely, letting all his professional intentions turn and shift into future promises to ply information from Romano _later_ \--later when Romano was satiated, after this wine, after another kiss, after one last touch without corruption.

“Please, sweetheart,” Antonio murmured, risking the endearment that made Romano rage so prettily, only a little disappointed when he earned only a snapping glare of disdain. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure.”

"A real fucking d’Avola. A little piece of home…”

Antonio’s eyes widened when Romano dipped his finger into the glass, skin staining as he swirled it beneath the surface of the wine.Antonio parted his lips faster than a moll singing for her supper, pulling the wine soaked finger into his mouth, tasting Romano and the tang of Sicily on his tongue, sucking harder when Romano gasped and sighed,

“You should be goddamned honored, bastard, to have even this much.”

Antonio missed the taste as soon as it was gone, whispering hotly, “I am honored.”

Romano smirked and pushed out of his chair, crowding into Antonio’s space while taking a sip of wine, letting Antonio watch him swallow and moan, his words half threat and half plea, “But you’re fucking greedy, aren’t you? You want more, I know this.”

Antonio wondered if now was the time to confess his intentions, to say that he had all he wanted in front of him, pressed against his knees, leering and pouring wine down his throat. His good intentions were stopped in their tracks when Romano kissed him with reckless passion once more, bent over nearly double and sighing into his mouth as Antonio licked the wine from his tongue. Antonio’s hands settled hot and possessive at Romano’s waist, fingers digging into the kind of fine linen not seen outside of the Chicago underground, a shirt made for a man like Romano, cut for kingpin, stitched to command respect. He wanted it off, wanted it on the floor, so he wouldn’t have to think guiltily of all the reasons they were both really here, kissing languid and long in the afternoon.

And in the moment that Romano broke away with eyes closed and his mouth parted, warm and soft against his cheek to sigh something in Italian, Antonio really, really hated Francis Bonnefoy.

“What was that?” Antonio asked, hands tugging down Romano’s suspenders and drifting towards the front of his pants.

Romano stilled and stiffened, standing quickly and jerking out of Antonio’s clinging grasp to mutter, “I said let’s go upstairs. It's goddamned indecent to fuck in the office.”

Antonio doubted that the three words whispered against his skin had said all that, but decided to leave Romano to his blushing lies, especially when they held such suggestions, moving with uncharacteristic speed to follow Romano’s lead towards the small apartments above the lounge.

Antonio’s eyes burned from the unexpected brightness of a bedroom filled with the light he’d forgotten in the shuttered backroom, his mind still swimming with the strains of Vivaldi and the lingering taste of Romano’s wine. The memory made him almost as dizzy as the feeling of Romano’s insistent, filthy mouth pressed against his throat and calling him bastard.

“This is what you want, right?” Romano hissed as he sucked behind his ear, hands fumbling with his belt as they shuffled together towards the bed, his expression strangely vulnerable and young when cast in daylight. “This is why you really come here,” Romano said, voice muffled by the undershirt Antonio pulled without care over his head.

Antonio palmed him through his pants and answered, over and over, “Yes, yes.”

He prayed that Romano could feel the truth of that much in the twist of his kiss as he smothered any other questions that might make him feel more guilt than lust, wanting to think of nothing but the rarity of Romano clinging to him, twining together their half-naked bodies as though he feared Antonio might let go.

As if there was any possibility of that happening, Antonio thought wildly as he broke from the heat of their embrace to admire one of Chicago’s most feared men, ruined with desire and spread beautifully beneath him, kiss slicked mouth already turning into a frown of impatience with each second Antonio denied him what he wanted.

Antonio smiled, believing that in the fleeting wary softness of Romano’s gaze there was a space for them, a space between the lines of crime and corruption, choosing to trust in that look rather than the strange desperation in Romano’s touch. Romano’s hands tangled painfully in his hair, greedy and careless, as Antonio shifted slowly downwards, taking his fingers, lips and tongue over the dip and tremor of Romano’s stomach. Hearing the unspoken demands in the groans echoing in the little room and the impatience in the tugging of his hair, Antonio smiled against the ridge of Romano’s hip and divested him of his pants, leaving him naked and angry with desire, entirely at Antonio’s infinite mercy.

“So beautiful,” Antonio confessed into the hot juncture of thigh and torso, fingers painting a picture of obvious intent down the length of Romano’s cock, “I could look at you all day.”

Romano’s hands loosened their grip, his voice wonderfully breathless. “We’ve got too many responsibilities for that kind of bullshit.”

Antonio pouted, meeting Romano’s hazy, distant glare as he propped up on one arm and mouthed around the head of Romano’s cock, finally giving in and pushing his lips lower and lower when Romano arched and pleaded-- “bastard” falling from his tongue like a curse and benediction.

In the moments that followed, Romano said nothing and gave away nothing but his enjoyment, eyes screwed shut to hide his desire from Antonio’s stare, words broken by moans as Antonio slid his tongue from tip to base, following it with the slow tease of his fingers and the warm exhalation of his breath over the wet, hot skin.

He stilled his eager mouth when the fingers in his hair tightened once more. His heart twisted and yearned at the sound of Romano’s rough, shattered command,

“Come here, bastard, and fucking kiss me.”

In all the weeks and months of their strange, drawn out tango, in the all stolen kisses and hurried, fervent liaisons, Romano had never quite sounded like that…like maybe he wanted Antonio as Antonio wanted him…desperately and against his better judgement, swept up and powerless.

Without delay, Antonio crawled up the bed and into Romano’s waiting arms, kissing him with swollen lips and pushing shamelessly into the shaking anxious touch over his pants. Holding the kiss, laughing a little into Romano’s wonderful, snarling mouth, Antonio shifted one hand down to help, shimmying out of his pants just enough to arch against Romano’s naked hips, cock sliding easily against the wetness he’d left on Romano’s skin.

Romano threw one leg over his, forcing their bodies together in an awkward tangle as though he wanted to be as close to Antonio as the rolling of their hips and the stroking of their hands would allow, whining into their kiss and biting at his lips when Antonio didn’t immediately bend to his will.

It was messy and fumbling and so nice that Antonio couldn’t help but wind his free arm around Romano’s waist and tug him nearer, even though his wrist ached from the angle and his lust whispered to him of how much he wanted to be inside, pushing into the tightness of his body and making it so there was no room between them for for the complications of others.

Romano’s eyes were fluttering, his mouth parted in a constant curse of pleasure, his errant curl flattened against his cheek.  Antonio was compelled to kiss sweetly over every inch he could reach when they were like this, knotted and too far gone for anything more than stroking and sighing.

“You,” Antonio started, reckless with the need to say one true thing in an afternoon of unspoken lies, “I want you to know…”

Romano hissed and arched, grip going so tight around Antonio’s cock as he came over Antonio’s fingers that Antonio had no choice but to lose his words and follow, coming with a surprised gasp until they were both shivering and spent, still wrapped in a too-close embrace.

“Just shut-up,” Romano demanded through heaving breaths, rolling them away from the wetness on the sheets to bury his face in Antonio’s shoulder. Satiated and silenced by Romano’s clinging warmth, Antonio kept his tongue thick and slow in his mouth, choosing instead to run his hands over the curve of Romano’s hip and wonder when they could see each other again.

His pleasure started to slip towards curious worry as Romano continued to hold him, allowing Antonio’s possessive, sweeping touch for far longer than ever before. At length, once his worry had started to coalesce into outright confusion, Romano sighed long and low, breath rushing across his chest, before he pushed Antonio away and muttered,

“Time for you to go, bastard. I’ve got shit to do.”

Antonio almost hummed with relief, happy once more to be on familiar ground as he dragged himself from the temptation of Romano’s sleepy embrace and started to slide on his clothes to remake the man. Already, he could hear Francis’ disappointment in him but he was buoyed by the relentless optimism that next time, next time, he could convince Romano that telling him secrets was the key to their continued…understanding. That he did not want these secrets for himself, but so Francis could have his big fish and they could go on trying to swim against their divergent tides.

“Hey,” Romano said, voice a low, threatening rumble that had Antonio turning slowly in place to meet his gaze, “I’ve got something I need to tell you. Two somethings.”

Antonio wavered, teetering between apprehension and admiration as he watched Romano watching him, entirely confident and dangerous in spite of the bareness of his skin. He knew with sudden, cold, horrible certainty that he had been caught out when Romano beckoned him near and pulled him in for a kiss devoid of warmth or welcome.

“First, Van Rijn has a message for your fuckfaced boss,” Romano murmured viciously, clenching unsteady hands around Antonio’s throat and rubbing his nose over Antonio’s  jaw. “He says if Bonnefoy wants something, he shouldn’t insult him by sending the hired help.”

Antonio winced and swallowed deeply, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against Romano’s hold, risking his heart as he asked the inevitable question, “And the second thing?”

Romano licked his lips and brushed their cheeks together, a mockery of affection to match his terribly whisper, “Try and fuck me for information again and I’ll kill you. Personally, with my own goddamned hands. Do you understand?”

Antonio nodded very slowly, grateful for the reprise and for the second chance, kissing the thumb that passed over his bottom lip and as he promised, “I understand.”

Romano released him with a shudder and turned away, leaving him with a harsh dismissal, “Good. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind. And if you ever do want to come back, you’ll stay the hell away from Van Rijn. He’s not as forgiving as I am.”

Antonio pressed a kiss to the coldness of Romano’s shoulder and took his words to heart. The door shut on the scene of his crimes of passion and Antonio wondered how he was going to explain this to Francis. With a smile that was much of a lie as any of the thousand others he’d told and would tell again, Antonio left Romano to his disappointment and carried the weight of his sorrows into the chill of a Chicago afternoon.


	2. Folly (Sweden, Finland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berwald bellies up to the bar, wanting more than just a drink.

Berwald knew that the last place in Chicago he needed to be was sitting on the corner stool at the notorious Plum Lounge, drinking the illegal liquor he tossed other people in jail for running, and trying to make sure no one recognized his face from the occasional snapshot on the front page of  _ The Tribune.  _ He hadn’t scraped and struggled to get free of the shame of his past just to get caught with his hand in a ginned up cookie jar by some muckraker looking to make a name for himself exposing the latest corrupt City Hall official. And yet, for all that he knew each time he pushed beyond the velvet rope he was risking his career with the District Attorney’s office, Berwald couldn’t talk himself out of coming back and sliding quietly onto the same stool and holding a single glass of slowly warming glass of vodka as the night wore on into the early hours of the morning. 

It wasn’t the crush of the crowd or the allure of the alcohol that had him coming back time and time again, in spite of his better judgment and the unspoken certainty that his ridiculous fixation would bring him nothing but trouble. He knew that had D.A. Kirkland never dragged him into the Lounge late one evening to discovering just where Detective Jones went in his off-hours, he would never have stumbled upon that which would tempt him enough to risk the taint of corruption. 

It wasn’t the sort of desire a good man like him spoke of. So he sat and watched and wanted. While the ice melted and he glared down the bar at the patrons who leaned in just a little too close to shout their orders over the chords of the piano, Berwald tried and failed to think of a reason to bring the pretty eyes and the sweet smile of the bartender back to his lonely, guarded little corner, holding his silence as surely as he held the drink between his hands. 

From his very first glass of illicit booze to the one currently going to waste, Berwald had been irrevocably intoxicated by the man behind the bar. At first glance, bewitched by the softness of his face and the rare lightness of his laugh, Berwald had been bemused to find someone so strangely vulnerable and lovely in a place like this, with its penchant towards the violet hues of violence. Much to the despair of his deepening interest and arousal, Berwald was quick to discover that the gentle Finn with the friendly face and the easy grin was also ringer who could choke an unruly patron into submission with his bare hands, his happy composure never wavering.

But night after night, he gave Berwald the same wide and welcoming smile and asked after his day so genuinely that Berwald thought maybe he really did care to listen for the two minutes it took him to mumble what little of interest there was to be found in days spent watching criminals go free in a system where money spoke louder than justice. And when he finished speaking, the sweet-faced man with the iron-temper would always nod sympathetically and only wince a little in reaction to Berwald’s grave expression, sliding a glass into his waiting hands before turning his attention to the next customer with a sad story and an aching liver. 

Every evening when he filed away the last of his briefings and turned off the lights in his cramped and humid little office, Berwald told himself he’d go straight home, that he’d keep the change in his pocket and spare himself the humiliation of enduring another night pining needlessly for a man with a name he didn’t even know, who made a living being kind to carefree revelers and lost souls. And yet there he was every night, the same stool, same drink, same music, same inability to do more than stare and wonder at his strange yearning heart, baffled by his own anger at the pretty blonde girl with the worried eyes who was whispering into the bartender’s ear. 

The feelings of a rage he thought he’d left for dead in a misspent youth bubbling up through his exhaustion were enough to have him fumbling for his wallet, ready to chalk-up the night as another exercise in folly and go home to the solitude of his bed. Tomorrow, he told himself as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and winced at the diminishing contents of his wallet, tomorrow he’d forget about speakeasies and the taste of vodka and those happy eyes that made him believe in the hullabaloo of love at first sight.

“Leaving so soon?” 

Startled, Berwald dropped his billfold to the dark, sticky floor, flushing as he scrambled to pick it up before the bartender walked away and took his unexpected attention with him.

“Finished my drink.” 

“Oh, sure, my favorite one-drink sheik,” the bartender offered with a wink, leaning on the polished wood and nodding at Berwald’s for once empty glass. “How could I have forgotten?”

Berwald wavered between arousal at the indirect reference to his dubiously attractive appearance and frustration that all his endless hours at the Plum had left such a fleeting impression. 

“That’s me,” Berwald grumbled, running his finger around the rim of the cup and peering at the smiling face over the rims of his glasses. 

“You’re a different sort, aren’t you?” The man asked lightly, smiling and waving at the most recent arrival at the end of the bar, before returning his gaze to Berwald’s frown.

Wary of just what was hidden in such a question, Berwald prevaricated, shrugging as he tried to find the right answer. “Suppose that depends on what you mean.”

The bartender’s laughter was bright and bold even over the rush of music and chatter, warming Berwald more than the vodka. 

“I mean that not too many men come to such an establishment as this and only order a single drink, friend,” he explained, blond hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head and continued, “And I like that, really. But you look so serious, you know.” 

Enchanted, even though he knew it was reckless, Berwald risked a hint of flirtation, leaning closer to murmur, “And?” 

The man laughed again and swiped the empty glass under the counter with a smile. “And so maybe you should try something different next time. Order another round. Pick a different poison. Find something to turn that frown upside down.” 

Flush and foolish, Berwald opened his mouth to ask the man what he’d personally recommend to cure a man of an unrequited attraction, only to have all his best laid plans sidelined by the quick and easy touch of two fingers to his open palm and hurried, exasperated words of parting:

“Shoot, the Boss needs me and he doesn’t look in the mood to wait tonight. But hey, I’ll see you again soon, yeah, my favorite single-shot?” 

And then the moment was over, lost in the din of conversation and jazz, while Berwald watched the man hustle over to meet the needs of person that should have been clapped in handcuffs and thrown in jail a thousand times over. But Berwlad knew better than most that no charge was ever going to stick to a Vargas in a town like Chicago. Buzzing from the swill and from the sweetness of an unexpected second smile, Berwald tossed his coin on the bar and decided not to regret the thick feeling of attraction and arousal until the next morning, when clarity returned and he remembered how ridiculous it was to pin hopes on fake dreams. 

  
He pushed his way through the crowd, mumbling a pardon to the bulky, worried looking German who blocked the door and spilled out into the cold night, knowing that despite everything, he would be back.


	3. Commiseration (America, Romano)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Romano bond over troublesome romance and even more troublesome family connections.

The taste of the Nero d’Avola in his glass lacked something without the salt of Antonio’s skin, but then again, Romano thought as he slumped lower in his chair, it also lacked that certain bitter flavor of betrayal. The lounge was noisy and annoying, full of johns and molls with too much  air and not enough sense, saved only by the coin that went from their deep pockets into Romano’s coffers, buying him security and power in a town of vandals and vagrants with no class.

“Hey Boss!” A loud, cheerful voice boomed loudly enough to be heard over Roderich’s half-hearted attempts at playing jazz.

Romano turned his head ever so slightly to meet the intruder’s wide, bold grin, ( _ so different from the slow bedroom smile of bastards who were better off at the bottom of the fucking lake than warming his bed _ ), and raised his glass in a halfhearted welcome.The American talked too goddamned much and took too many liberties, but of all the many morons Romano had met in his short time Stateside, Alfred was one of the least of all evils, proving to be both a valuable asset and tolerable enough distraction when he was sick of the silence of corruption.

“Mind if I join you?” Alfred asked needlessly, alreading he sliding onto the stool and spreading his hands over the polished wood of the bar before the words had finished leaving his mouth.

“It’s a free fucking country,” Romano said, thankful enough for Alfred’s company, knowing it would keep the other lowlifes in the joint from thinking tonight was the night to try to move in on the Vargas king and worm their way into his empire like the rats they were. “Or so you mouthy Americans keep fucking telling me.”

“Welcome to the land of milk and honey, my good man,” Alfred said, tossing off his hat and running his fingers through his hair, his gaze merry and bright as he tried to catch the distracted bartender’s distracted.  “Can’t blame us if we want everyone to take real good stock of what the American dream is selling.”

Romano snorted, coughing a little as he swallowed his wine, licking the remnants from his lips so as not to waste a single drop of this barbed reminder of home. “Guns, gin, and greed. What a fucking nightmare.”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Alfred said, unperturbed by Romano’s ire, eying his glass with suspicious interest. “Maybe whatever you’ve got going there is giving you the blues, pal.”

Romano considered, frowning while he rolled the glass back and forth between his fingers, watching the plum purple turn garnet against the candle light, responding roughly, “I don’t ever blame my goddamned problems on the wine.”

Alfred’s annoyingly happy smile twisted into something entertainingly ugly, his lips curling when he scoffed, “Rancid grape juice? I’ll leave that old fashioned nonsense to you and Kirkland. Suits your sour personalities.”

“Good, I’ve already shared it with one asshole today,” Romano said with reluctant amusement, always pleased when someone in this goddamned place had the balls to speak to him man to man, instead of full of simpering need or veiled threats, feeling the darkness of his mood lift in Alfred’s stupidly appealing brightness.

He snapped his fingers and jerked his head, commanding the bartender away from the hulking mass of man huddled at the end of the bar that nursed the same goddamned drink he came in and ordered every other night, taking up precious real estate while he glared holes in the back of Tino’s head. Romano tolerated his presence because he seemed to scare off the worst of the lowlifes from thinking they could chat up his girls, but he was still the fucking boss, and when he wanted a drink, Tino’s attention belonged to him.

“What’s up, Boss?” Tino asked, wiping away the condensation with a rag while his fingers tapped along to the rhythm of Roderich’s liberal interpretation of ragtime.

“Get this asshole whatever he wants to drink and put it on my tab,” Romano commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at Alfred’s beaming, relaxed face.

“Gimme a gimlet,” Alfred said, throwing an arm casually across Romano’s shoulders and earning himself the disbelieving stares of half the room. “And make it double, since it seems my new best friend’s feeling mighty generous tonight.”

“Get your hand off me, bastard. You’re gonna make me look soft in front of these mucks.”

Alfred laughed and set him free, grasping the drink instead and tossing Tino a wink and quarter. “And then you’ll have to exact Sicilian vengeance and I’ll have to arrest you, when all I wanted was an evening spent with cold booze and a hot dame.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Romano muttered, burying his smirk in the redness of his glass, drowning  feelings of doubt and the taste of Antonio in intoxication and commiseration.

“I’m the bee’s knees,” Alfred said, downing his gin with exaggerated enjoyment. 

Despite himself, Romano smiled. Everything about Alfred was so large and unrestrained in a world of subtle deals and quiet intimations punctuated only by gunshots and the sounds of violence that it was hard not to fall into his easy camaraderie. 

“Says who?” Romano taunted, signaling for Tino to bring another and rolling his eyes when Alfred gestured for the man to just leave the bottle, as greedy and assuming as every other American he’d ever met, thinking the whole goddamned world was just theirs for the taking.

Alfred looked at him slyly, flushing a little as he gazed quickly about the room, eyes darting in and out of the shadowed corners of the Plum before he leaned in, his ginned up breath skating over Romano’s neck when he whispered, “A certain pretty blonde dame with some fine tracts of land for a gal from the Low Countries.”

Romano shoved him away and scowled. “You are one dumb motherfucker. Van Rijn will kill you if you finds you stepping out with his sister.”

Alfred was as nonplussed as ever, the ballsy bastard, shrugging off Romano’s concern and warning with a laugh and shake of his head. “Nah, he won’t touch me. No matter how much I touch her…if you know what I mean.”

Romano wondered where a man with a badge in his pocket and the stars in his eyes got the confidence or the stupidity to think it was a good idea to mess around with the one girl in the city who was rumored to be off-limits to everyone--- including Romano, had he been interested in wooing the younger Van Rijn. He chalked it up to being American, knowing no self-respecting Italian would have the gall to violate every unspoken rule and chase the one skirt in town that was practically an invitation to an unpleasant ending.

“I know you’re an even stupider bastard than Carriedo if you think you can get away with dipping your hand into any of Van Rijn’s business,” Romano said lowly, co signing the idiot American to his fate, even as he regretted the loss of a decent drinking partner and a reliable friend at City Hall.

Alfred smiled at him, eyes already a little glassy for all that his smile remained firmly in place. “I think it's sweet that you’re worried about me. But really, I got this. Veronika’s brother won’t come near me. Even if he does find out what his not so sweet baby sister’s been up to her in time off his books, he’ll leave me alone.”

“What the fuck makes you so certain?” Romano asked, intrigued despite his better judgment.

Alfred smirked. “One, I’m a cop. It's bad business to kill cops, even in this town.”

Romano scoffed and waved a hand, not buying that shit for as second, having seen more than one crooked cop disappeared in his short time as Boss Vargas.

“Two,” Alfred said, holding up another finger, “He’s in business with someone who would be very upset if I were to turn up mangled or dead.”

Begrudgingly Romano accepted this as truth, all too aware of the many networks of loyalty and goddamned feeling that made untangling oneself from dangerous obligations or putting a bullet in some sibling corruptor's head too fucking difficult, suddenly grateful that the German moron was too much of a pussy to ever do anything about the stars he had in his eyes for his idiot little brother. He refused to think of the threat he made in the fading sunlight of the afternoon against a throat he would sooner kiss than choke, for all that the fucker deserved bruises for his betrayal, instead of Romano’s desperate desire to protect him from his own complicity in the games of their twisted world.

“And three,” Alfred said, voice so rich with enjoyment it tore Romano once more from his angry, bitter thoughts, “It would seem that even Van Rijn answers to someone.”

Romano’s eyes widened, “Well, fuck me. Who’s bad enough to scare that cutthroat bastard?”

Alfred winked and licked around the edges of his smile, pouring another drink as he murmured secretively, “His sister.”

Startled into laughter, Romano forgot himself for a moment, clapping Alfred’s shoulder and downing the rest of his wine, believing every word as he crowed with delight.

  
“Family’s a bitch.”


	4. Honor (Germany, Italy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliciano seeks to avenge Romano's honor. Ludwig doesn't know what to do with himself.

Ludwig knew never to expect anything good to happen when Feliciano’s lips were set in a rare thin line of displeasure and his eyes weren’t clouded with willful ignorance but instead opened wide on the world that moved and shook around him. It was, Ludwig knew after nearly two years of shadowing the younger Vargas’ every move, a warning that Feliciano had decided on some course of action that was likely to be foolhardy, dangerous, and with a possibility of death or dismemberment. Worse still, Ludwig knew from painful experience that when Feliciano looked like  _ this  _ there was nothing on this earth that could sway Feliciano from his predetermined path. 

In other circumstances, Ludwig might not have been opposed to such resoluteness and firmness of character in a man who had a greater penchant for ease and gentleness than he did for understanding the realities of their dark and unkind corner of Chicago. As his bodyguard, as the one responsible for Feliciano’s safety and sanity, Ludwig could not help but think it would be best if Feliciano were scarred just enough by cruelty and betrayal and darkness to know how best to avoid future pain. Even if the thought of Feliciano as anything other than untouched made him feel as though should such an offense come to pass, he might come to appreciate the wild violence of Chicago, logic dictated that Feliciano would be safer if he trusted less and thought more.  

But when the day had started with him standing outside a closed door meeting that smelled of tobacco, listening to the boom of Mr. Vargas’ temper and ended with him being sent away to pace the narrow floor of his room because Feliciano insisted he be left alone to speak with his brother, (even though Ludwig had quite reasonably protested that when Van Rijn came calling the last thing Feliciano should be was unprotected), he knew that Feliciano’s stubborn look meant nothing but trouble. 

So when Feliciano came striding up to him in the corner of the club, with troubled eyes and his  arms held out like he intended to embrace Ludwig until he acquiesced, Ludwig knew that he wouldn’t even need a single touch to be made to say  _ yes. _

“Ludwig,” Feliciano sighed, standing inappropriately close and gesturing rapidly with one hand, “Do you see what’s going on at the bar? Is it not the saddest picture you have ever seen?” 

Ludwig stifled his own sigh, hoping against hope that perhaps Feliciano had only been caught up again in the Hungarian woman’s  ridiculous nets of gossip and intrigue. He turned reluctantly to follow the path of Feliciano’s overly expressive gestures.  Ludwig frowned, perplexed by what exactly was causing Feliciano’s unnecessary consternation and that damned stubborn frown, trying out of respect for his boss’ brother to keep the impatience from his voice as he reported what he witnessed:“

It would appear Mr. Vargas is drinking wine at the bar with his associate from the police department.”

“I know,” Feliciano said sadly, blinking twice before his lips twisted downwards into an unfamiliar and unsettling grimace, sounding far too much like his elder brother when he continued, “It is far worse than I thought.” 

“Explain,” Ludwig said, instinctively regretting the sharpness in his tone until  he noticed that for once Feliciano was not reacting to his harsh words with a surprised look of hurt but was instead staring at his brother with a queer hardness in his gaze. 

Feliciano’s eyes flicked to him, somehow pitying as he answered, “Brother hates jazz because he says it's too fucking American. Brother hates sitting at the bar because it makes any of the jokers in the joint think they can just come up and sit right next to him, like he’s not the goddamned boss of the club.”

Once he had recovered from the shock of hearing Romano’s filth on Feliciano’s tongue, Ludwig considered what Feliciano had said, unable to refute a single word, feeling the knot of unease in his stomach grow considerably tighter as Feliciano grew increasingly unfamiliar with each passing moment that his face remained devoid of a smile. 

“True,” Ludwig allowed reluctantly, ever wary of that which he could not predict, “But why is this of concern?” 

Feliciano ignored him, staring at his brother with an intensity Ludwig had not seen since the morning he threw himself into the path of a bullet meant for Feliciano’s brain. He finally turned to Ludwig, expression distant and thoughtful. “Because Brother is upset.” 

“I see,” Ludwig answered noncommittally, always finding it best to reserve judgment on the Vargas family politics, even as he wondered if perhaps Van Rijn had threatened him or if there had been trouble with the Nordic gang. Neither possibility boded well for the uneasy peace they all pretended to take for granted while people danced and drank and ignored the price of their illegal pleasures. 

“I’m glad Ludwig understands,” Feliciano said quietly as he curled his fingers around Ludwig’s wrist, thumb pressing into the underside of his arm and sending little tremors of apprehension and warning up Ludwig’s spine. “So that means you will come with me to pay a little visit to a friend, yes?”

Ludwig stiffened, alarmed by the very possibility of Feliciano trying to handle his brother’s business and wandering into the wolf’s den. He shook his head fervently and opened his mouth bark  _ absolutely not! _ only to feel his blood run cold at the touch of Feliciano’s finger to his disapproving lips and the whisper of darkness in Feliciano’s soft rebuke. 

“It wasn’t a request,” Feliciano said, once more staring at Romano staring at the empty wine glass in front of him. “Ludwig knows we all have our jobs to do, right?” 

“Yes,” Ludwig agreed warily, uncertain if today was the day he needed to risk losing Feliciano’s trust and lose all rights to happy smiles and excited laughter by causing a scene and bringing Romano into the conflict as head of the family. 

Feliciano squeezed his wrist and smiled at him, low and angry, an expression so out of place on lips made for humming annoying songs at inappropriate moments or for parting in fondness whenever Romano kissed his forehead. This Feliciano smiled at him like a man who knew what it was to have blood beneath his fingernails and a man’s fate between his palms. 

Ludwig swallowed and tried to remember the oaths he’d taken to this family, to this strange and startling person before him, promising silently to do what he could, no matter the personal cost, to protect his unshakable belief in Feliciano’s unfathomable sweetness. 

Feliciano nodded and straightened his shoulders, for a single moment every inch a soldier even his brother would have approved, voice quiet and beautiful as he demanded, “Then you will do your job and come with me while I do mine.”

The coolness of the evening seemed to match the strangeness of Feliciano’s mood and Ludwig wished that he had been more insistent that they take Mr. Vargas’ car instead of wandering up Roosevelt in the dark, where anyone could emerge from the fogged alleys and make yet another attempt on Feliciano’s life. Ludwig wondered if Feliciano understood how vulnerable his brother’s position remained even after a year in control, how all the sewer rats were clever enough to know that though Vargas had proven himself more than capable of making ruthless decisions, he was still young and prone to fits of temper and distress that marked him as a man ruled by his emotions. More than anything, when Feliciano set his jaw and demanded that he be allowed to walk when they could take better precaution and drive, or said that he would not be stopped by “Ludwig’s very sweet but very silly worry,” when he wished to make a house call that could have waited until morning, he questioned whether Feliciano understood that crueler men than Mr. Vargas wouldn’t hesitate to exploit the weakness he had for his brother.

But no matter how often he tried to explain this to Feliciano in the most logical and respectful terms, while also trying not to violate Mr. Vargas’ explicit decree that Ludwig never, ever cause his brother unnecessary fear or upset, Feliciano just blinked at him and smiled softly like Ludwig had given him a wonderful present instead of a lecture on why it was best to mitigate the risks of kidnapping or assassination. So, here they were, against every iota of his better judgment, in the dark of late evening, alone and unprotected but for Ludwig’s keen eyes and carefully concealed pistol, likely walking into the den of one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.

However, it was only when he finished casting his gaze up and down the almost abandoned street and quieting his discontent over the strategic disadvantage in which Feliciano so frequently put them that Ludwig realized they had turned left when they should have turned right, and were therefore walking away from Van Rijn’s warehouse instead of towards it.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig said tiredly, concerned that he had somehow managed to acquire his charge’s blissful ignorance of his surroundings. His frown deepened when Feliciano didn’t immediately turn at the sound of his voice with a smile and a carefree, “ _ Ve, what is it, Ludwig?”  _ Reluctantly, too aware of how often he found his body touching Feliciano’s, crowding inappropriately into the space he was meant to protect and not to invade, Ludwig brushed Feliciano’s shoulder with his fingers, ever careful not to feel the bare skin of his neck.

“Feliciano,” He tried again, quickly dropping his hand when Feliciano finally gave him his attention, lips still turned disturbingly downwards as he gestured with something that bordered on impatience for Ludwig to continue.

Unsettled by the realization that Feliciano could in fact move at a speed other than lackadaisical, Ludwig stammered, “We’re going the wrong way.”

Feliciano’s brow wrinkled as he negated Ludwig’s assumption, “No, this is the right way. I am very sure, I checked the address in Brother’s ledger twice.”

“Van Rijn’s building is west of here, not east,” Ludwig pressed, reaching out to try and take Feliciano’s wrist and lead him no longer astray.

Feliciano smiled at him strangely, shaking his head as he turned back around and continued heading in the same direction, murmuring, “Silly Ludwig, that’s not where we’re going.”

Caught off guard and not a little annoyed to have seemingly been misled, Ludwig used two long strides to catch up to Feliciano’s side, grasping the delicateness of his wrist between the safety of his hand, grumbling, “I do not understand. I thought you wished to demand recompense on your brother’s behalf.”

The feeling of Feliciano’s skin slipping against his palm as they walked together was not enough to distract him from the patient pitying tone of his response, “This is not about business, Ludwig.”

Perplexed and frustrated by the unexpected revelation that his guileless responsibility was capable of dissembling, Ludwig could not keep the irritation from bleeding into his words as he bit out, “What then? What is this risky and foolhardy expedition about?”

“Family,” Feliciano answered simply, face grim, determined, and entirely new to Ludwig’s ever watchful eyes as they came to a stop in front of an apartment building that looked like any other apartment building.

Feliciano did not wait for his approval to ascend the stairs and stride into the building, pausing and turning back only when he realized his shadow was still waiting at the bottom of the stairs trying to figure out how he’d been so outmaneuvered.

“Romano takes care of the family, takes care of business, and takes care of me,” Feliciano said softly, smiling thinly as he held out a hand to Ludwig and asked him near, “And so I will take care of Romano.”

Ludwig frowned disapprovingly but said nothing, at a loss as to what logic he could possibly use to refute a sentiment so irrational, pushing his way in front of Feliciano, shielding him with his bulk as they ascended two more flights, stopping when Feliciano tapped his shoulder and slid around him to point at a door marked,  _ A. F. Carriedo. _

“You’re visiting the reporter?” Ludwig whispered lowly, halting the progress of Feliciano’s thoughtless hand as it made to knock, wondering what the too cheerful but seemingly harmless newspaper man had done to merit this nighttime visit, when to his knowledge Feliciano had never been anything but too fond of Carriedo, favoring him with smiles and hugs that seemed to elicit rare mutual feelings between Ludwig and Romano.

“Don’t worry, Ludwig,” Feliciano murmured, knocking twice as he turned his face upwards to ply Ludwig with a sweet smile and heavy eyes that hid more than Ludwig had ever suspected, “I just want to talk to him for a moment, you don’t need to do anything but watch.” Feliciano paused, expression darkening as they listened to the shuffle of Carriedo’s approach, whispering coolly, “But you must promise not to be scared of anything I might say. Ludwig knows I would never say such things to  _ him.” _

Ignoring the sudden twist of apprehension and the shameful flush that threatened to spread beyond his cheeks and down his throat, Ludwig pushed Feliciano behind his back as the door opened to reveal Carriedo, appearance mussed, tired, and not a little surprised as he registered who it was that had summoned him.

“Feliciano?  Is that you?” Carried asked without acknowledging his presence, betraying the charmer’s familiarity with the Vargas operation, reaching out a presumptive hand to try and pull Feliciano inside his apartment, thwarted by Ludwig’s knowing glower and sudden shift.

“How kind of Antonio to recognize me,” Feliciano said softly, running his fingers up Ludwig’s arm as he slid forward and away from Ludwig’s protection. “I’m very sorry to call without an invitation but there is something very important I must discuss with you.”

Ludwig watched the wary play of emotions across Antonio’s face, all too aware of the tension in Feliciano’s shoulders and the whispered threat in the falsity of Feliciano’s smile.

“Of course,” Antonio said peaceably, though his hands remained tight by his side. “Would you like to come in?”

Feliciano shook his head, declining gently, “No, no, this won’t take much time.” He stepped further away from the circle of Ludwig’s alert concern to touch a finger to the angry red mark just below Antonio’s jaw and ask sweetly, “Antonio knows that I like him, yes?”

Ludwig stiffened at the familiarity of the gesture and the warning in Feliciano’s voice, sliding quietly closer while keeping his gaze trained on Carriedo’s wary expression.

“I’m happy that is true,” Carriedo answered slowly, tilting his neck away from Feliciano’s searching touch, as obviously surprised as Ludwig when Feliciano’s hand tightened swiftly around his throat and pulled him near.

Feliciano leaned in close, the smile on his face something twisted and fearsome, so unrecognizable it burned Ludwig’s heart.

“That’s why I would be very sad to have to hurt you if you betray my brother again.”

_ Who was this man? _ Ludwig thought wildly, uncertain of whether to take Feliciano’s hand away or join it with his own and share the responsibility of such a dark promise, his heart racing as he saw Antonio’s face soften with sorrow and regret and heard the bitterness of his spoken regret:

“To have my life threatened by both the beautiful Vargas’ in one day is quite an accomplishment.”

Feliciano loosened his hold, stroking the skin he had reddened with hands that Ludwig had always thought were too soft, shaking his head as he shushed Antonio and said quietly, “No matter what he says, Brother would never harm you. He will forgive you as he forgave you today, even if it is not very good for him to do so. Because he loves you.”

Ludwig swallowed and looked away, unwilling to witness the flush of pleasure and despair in Antonio’s expression, nor to know the rose colored secrets of his angry boss, or to believe that buried beneath the honey daydreams, Feliciano was capable of such coldness.

“Romano loves you,” Feliciano said sweetly, dipping swiftly forward to press a kiss to the shamed and worried corner of Antonio’s mouth. “But I only like you. And I must look out for Brother when he can’t look out for himself. I hope you can understand.”

Without thinking, Ludwig pulled Feliciano away, glaring at Carriedo as he touched his fingers to the skin that Feliciano had kissed and said lowly, “I understand.”

Feliciano brightened, shoulders softening beneath the span of Ludwig’s palms when he leaned into the breath Ludwig had been holding, answering with a measure of his usual cheer, “Very good, I am so glad!”

Feliciano turned within his arms, smiling up at him as though all was already forgotten, asking him if they could go back home now, seemingly unaware of the tumult he’d wrought in Ludwig’s mind, as though he had no idea how his words and actions circled furiously in Ludwig’s thoughts, colliding spectacularly with each gentle dream of Feliciano he’d ever entertained, misconceptions rearranged into something deeply more complex and unsettling.  

“You are a good brother,” Antonio called out to the retreat of their backs as Feliciano hustled them down the hall, his expression wistful and apologetic when Ludwig craned his neck to give him a parting glare of disapproval.

“What was that?” Ludwig barked as soon as they were once more in the cold night air, halting Feliciano’s carefree progress down the street with a firm grip on his wrist, tugging him close enough to allow for scrutiny of Feliciano’s smile, examining its curve and wondering how it was he had watched for so long and never once suspected.

“A Vargas protects their own,” Feliciano answered simply, eyes clear and honest as he shuffled into Ludwig’s space. “Brother taught me that.”

Ludwig stilled, captured by the clarity of Feliciano’s expression, the surety in his voice, answering lowly, “I do not think Mr. Vargas would want you to take such risks on his behalf.”

Feliciano smiled sweetly, almost once more himself, patting Ludwig’s chest with his free hand and splaying his fingers over the racing of his heart. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. There are some people in life for which you will do anything, even if it’s scary, even if it’s hard, if it is what needs to be done so they can be happy. I am sure there is a person in this world who Ludwig loves this way.”

  
Ludwig said nothing, breath and words caught between his throat and in the knowing glimmer of affection in Feliciano’s gaze, too shamefully certain that for this man who laughed too brightly and threatened another life with a smile and cared far too deeply and recklessly…there was nothing in his world he would not forfeit.


	5. The Sweetness of Corruption (Reprise, Francis and Jos)

Two days after Antonio had come crawling back to the office with conflicted eyes, murmuring Romano’s second-hand message while smelling of sex and guilt, and one day after Francis had devoted a few scant inches of newsprint to rumors of a new game in town, his long awaited invitation finally came. The delivery girl had been as familiar to him as the the bouquet of orange tulips she pressed into his greedy hands, even though he had never before seen her lovely face in person, heretofore known to him only from a precious photograph that had once been kept clandestine and safe in an old walk-up apartment in Brooklyn.

With green eyes so much like her brother’s, she had said nothing as she left the floral summons to rest on his messy desk, abandoning him to contemplate the threat and promise contained within the streaked petals and scrawled across the embossed card tucked between the leaves.

In spite of the danger, in spite of the desire that whispered over his skin each time he indulged in thoughts of not  _ Van Rijn _ but  _ Jos _ , in spite of the darkening of his thoughts, for a fleeting moment when the woman turned to him with words of warning so clearly on the tip of her tongue all Francis had wanted to say was how glad he was that Jos had finally been able to bring his secretly beloved sister to America. How lovely it was to finally meet the one person that Jos had always begrudgingly loved without reservation.

But she had swallowed her words, allowing only her eyes to tell Francis how much she loathed him, how she thought she knew what it was that had been between her brother and this handsome, smiling man before her, who touched the flame colored flowers as though they were precious instead of turning pale with fear as any other sane man would have done if they had received the Dutchman’s calling card.

Careful not to stain the white edges with his ink-stained fingers, Francis had searched for Jos within the precise loops and dots of the stark black lettering that summoned him to the Drake Hotel that very evening. He had wished that he had worn a better tie and gotten that much needed close shave, wishing to be at his very best for this first sighting of Van Rijn since he had made the choice to liquidate his New York City honey trap and make a play for Chicago.

But all he could do was give proper credit where proper credit was due, wondering if Jos still knew him well enough to know that Francis’ vanity would register such a slight, and he would walk into that hotel room already at a disadvantage. It was such pointed calculations as these, meant to needle and disrupt, to toy with Francis’ vain and fleeting emotions, that had always made Jos so irresistible. From those first days of an acquaintance spent  running afoul of one another in the backrooms and back alleys of New York until the last moments of their dangerous liaison, Francis had been uninterested in resisting the temptation of Jos’ cruel affection and shadowed heart, a perfect match to his own ambition-poisoned well of romance.

And so despite pleas from his sweet little secretary not to answer the call to the Drake, to tell the police that he’d received such a threat, ( _ poor dear, so blissfully ignorant of how gleefully Francis had courted this warning shot across his bow, how envious he had been of all those lesser beings that somehow merited Jos’ attention when he had dared to come to Francis’ city and ignore him _ ), Francis walked the dark streets of Chicago without the kind of dinner jacket he would have preferred but rather with a single orange tulip threaded delicately through his lapel, marking him as surely as any of the mouth shaped bruises Jos had once endeavored to leave on his skin.

In the lobby of the Drake he was accosted by another emissary, though this one had wild red eyes that narrowed with disappointment when Francis refused to be suitably afraid as he was  manhandled into the elevator with a switch blade digging into his back. Still striving for terror, the wild-eyed minion filled the air between the first floor and the twelfth with cackled assurances of what he would do to Francis’ too-pretty face if he tried any funny business with the boss.

Though unafraid, Francis was a little annoyed to find that the enforcer with the unmistakable German accent had managed to further ruin his already unkempt enough appearance by leaving tiny little cuts in the sides of his favorite gray work suit. And yet, when the miscreant knocked twice at Room 1204 and the curt voice that had once been his favorite whisper in the night answered, Francis forgot about anything but the pleasure of seeing Jos once again.

For, there on the hotel room sofa, as beautiful and severe as ever in black pinstripes, staring at him with cold, untelling green eyes and thin lips that held back all the secrets that filled the infinite space between them, was Jos van Rijn. As he endured being patted down by rough hands, Francis met Jos’ steel gaze with a warm smile that could be nothing but salt in the wound caused by he acrimony of their last parting. He was pleased to find that time and troubles had done nothing but make Jos more dangerously alluring, his body taut with confidence and a predator’s deadly desire to strike at the throat of prey.

Francis shook his hair loose as his hat was torn from his head and his coat from his shoulders, pouting at the indelicate treatment even as he enjoyed the reluctant spark of returned attraction in Jos' silent, unwavering stare. His quiet stillness remained unbroken until he dismissed the lackey with with his usual economic elegance, a nod and a wave, and for the first time since Francis had traded Jos for a chance at power and glory, they were alone.

“My darling, how lovely to see you again,” Francis said, fluttering his eyelashes. He treasured Jos’ answering flinch at the presumption of endearment. 

“Francis,” Jos acknowledged, the name on those lips barely a gravelled whisper, curling around Francis’ throat and beckoning him forward.

“While I am sure your Prussian mercenary has his uses, I confess I would have preferred to be escorted by your sister,” Francis said, idly sauntering nearer as he loosened his tie to make room for the excited racing of his pulse. “I must say I was surprised to see that you had made her your angel of death. What an unseemly occupation for such a beautiful lady.”

“She insisted she wished to deliver my message in person,” Jos said, expression dark and vicious with unsatisfied anger, “And as the outcome would have been the same regardless, I could not see the value in telling her no.”

“You never could tell her no,” Francis murmured sweetly, the past tasting rich and cruel on his tongue, his hands already reaching for the sharp edge of Jos’ clenched jaw as he came to stand in front of the couch.

Jos remained as still and cold as marble, only giving Francis the barest hint of fury beneath his dispassionate gaze, as he permitted Francis to admire him with the tips of his fingers. Francis could not fathom why such Jos would allow such a thing, after all that Francis had done,  permitting this first touch after so long a drought. Francis did not care to know what reasons drove this madness.  The discovery of a Jos so unchanged and yet so unrecognizable was worth any price he could pay.

“What’s this?” Francis whispered, curious and greedy fingers skating over a scar that he had not known in their previous life. 

Jos’ grip around his wrist was quick and unbreakable in contrast to the measured blandness of the explanation he poured like guilt into Francis’ ear. “A little gift from prison.”

Francis shivered and arched into the lips whispering across his throat, the frisson of regret he felt at the reminder of where Jos had been during these years of silence quickly subsumed by the desire he always felt when Jos near enough to steal the breath from his lungs with a kiss or the wrapping of broad and lovely hands around his neck.

“It suits you,” Francis murmured, wincing at the sharp twisting of his wrist. He met the threat in Jos’ gaze with the adoration in his own, “After all, look at how well you’ve done for yourself since New York.”

Jos’ laugh was dry and rasping, full of victory and confidence that had Francis’ blood humming. “Yes, well enough to have New York and Chicago both.”

Now it was Francis’ turn to laugh at the arrogance in his Jos’ assertions, at the thought of Chicago being in any possession but his own. “Always so ambitious, my darling. Though I might advise you to choose your allies wisely in such a city as this.”

“How considerate of you to think of me,” Jos said coldly, before releasing Francis’ wrist and standing abruptly from the couch, his towering height as imposing and attractive as ever, as he pushed past the cloying arch of Francis’ body.

Francis frowned as he watched Jos walk away, settling into the warmth of the seat he had just left. He mused over Jos’ bold declaration of intent to take Chicago for his own, flooded at once with wariness and excitement over the prospect of such a challenger for the turf he had sacrificed so much to gain.

“Drink?” Jos called to him, breaking his daydreams of wicked schemes and a return to all the old games they used to play so well together, each with one eye on the future and the other watching for in wary anticipation of an inevitable betrayal.

“Please,” Francis answered, peering over his shoulder in a practiced movement that let his hair slide over the curve of his face and reaching one arm over the back of the couch to accept the glass pressed into his hand, thrilling to the unexpected eagerness in Jos’ gaze as he took a sip.

“My god,” Francis whispered, eyes drifting shut as he savored the shock of delicate cherry and earth passing over his tongue and down into deeply buried memories of France. “My darling, is this what I think it is?”

He felt the press of Jos’ arm against his shoulders and the brush of stubble on his cheek as Jos murmured to him, his answer low and endearingly smug, “1919 Romanee-Conti.”

Heart racing as he drank once more, Francis swallowed down wine and memory and a dark sense of longing.  He turned his face so his lips could meet the roughness of Jos’ five o’clock shadow. “My favorite. You remembered.”

He purred with approval when Jos unexpectedly dragged his fingers down Francis’ neck, tracing the movement of each sip, lust and caution sparring for control of his better judgement as Jos continued to stroke his skin.

“I remember everything,” Jos said, fingers suddenly tightening to the point of danger, forcing Francis into submissive arousal as he drowned in the wine caught between mouth and throat. “I remember you.”  Francis gasped and forced the wine down as Jos released him with a taunting whisper of a laugh. “Which is why I warned Vargas about to whom his little pet really belonged.”

Jos hands disappeared, leaving Francis with his life, but without Jos’ touch.  Francis pouted playfully, rubbing his hand over the delicious soreness of his neck as he chastened, “Such ploys would not have been necessary if you had done me the courtesy of calling when you first came to Chicago. To  _ my _ city. My feelings were quite hurt, my darling. To think I had to try for the attention you once gave so readily.”

“You will get Carriedo killed,” Jos mused, reaching in his pocket for his cigarette case while he ignored Francis’ bait, frowning around the unlit smoke as Francis laughed.

“Oh, my darling,” Francis said between peals of amusement, holding out his free hand for a smoke and licking his laughing lips, “Romano will not kill Antonio for the same reason you will not harm me.”

Jos’ expression hardened, his voice wondrously ugly and laden with suppressed rage. “You presume too much, Bonnefoy.”

“I’m flattered, my sweet,” Francis murmured, leaning into the light Jos still offered, despite the undercurrent of violence beneath such affectations of social grace. It was nothing but pleasure to stare at Jos through the rising veil of smoke between them, all honey and sweetness as he continued, “But I meant only to imply that I am far too visible and well protected to simply disappear without certain hands prying into matters. Should you choose to walk into my web, m darling, I think you will find that me and mine are by no means friendless. You may have the momentary satisfaction of my death, but I believe the cost will be too rich for your practical blood.”

Jos exhaled slowly as Francis held his stare, the mingling of desire and something so close to hate intoxicating than the illicit Burgundy that Francis slipped down his throat. 

“No doubt you still use the same tricks to ensnare your foolish sycophants and white knights,” Jos said, fingers clenched around his cigarette.

Francis tilted his head and blew out a long stream of smoke, watching as it dissipated before it could curl around Jos’ arms. He took his time, considering and admiring this man before him, who had poured his wine, lit his cigarette, touched the vulnerable hollow of his throat and not yet wished his death. 

“Your jealousy is very becoming,” Francis murmured, thrilling to the danger, unable to resist breaking the unspoken rules that Jos still shouted with every reluctant glance, every aborted touch. “But what you would you do if I told you I had many men in my pocket, so many men, rich men, powerful men…but that I have loved none but you?”

With a vicious economy of motion, Jos extinguished his cigarette. “I would give you to the Prussian for an hour. There are more ways than death to make a man suffer.”

“I know this very well, my darling,” Francis said with an affectionate smile, licking the last of the wine from his lips and settling once more against the back of the couch, taking himself just out of reach.

“What do you want, Francis?” Jos said roughly, each word dredged from the wreckage of their sunken history.

Francis smiled faintly. “Who’s to say I don’t simply wish to see you again? To see how you’ve managed and how you’ve grown,” he paused, nodding his head at the empty glass, “To taste for myself the fruits of the labor that has brought you once more to my door and whet my parching guilt?”

“That cannot be all.”

Francis laughed at Jos’ impatient stony disbelief, the tension deepening between them so deliciously that he was already half-hard beneath his pants, his desire for the inevitable break growing more desperate with each glance that betrayed Jos’ weak-willed hate.

“Perhaps you’re right, but I do not think I shall share.” Francis said, rubbing one thumb over his lip. “After all, where’s the fun in telling?”

Jos leaned forward in his chair, his warning soft yet laden with deadly intent. “Try and remember that I went to prison for you. By rights, I should have you killed painfully, but I am doing the courtesy of asking.” The cut of his smile was pained and cruel as he took a breath. “What do you want, Francis?”

In that moment, Francis thought he had never wanted Jos more, willing and ready to plead to be tied down and splayed open by his vengeance.

“My darling,” Francis said breathlessly, inching slowly from his seat, holding Jos’ gaze all the while, “You went to prison  _ because _ of me. There is a difference.”

“Do you still believe your own lies?” Jos snapped, lips twisting downward into a familiar snarl.

Francis wanted to trace the knife’s point of that frown with his tongue. “There is a difference, my dove, as charming as your alternative may be.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game, Francis,” Jos said lowly, barely more than a rumble, “Do not test my patience.”

Francis had no intention of doing anything other than  just that, to chipping away until the dam broke. He sighed, “There is no game more deadly than romance, my darling. So, I ask you, who is the one playing the dangerous game now?”

Jos stood up sharply, chair scraping against wood with the force of Jos’ displeasure as he commanded, “Get out,” 

Reluctant, not yet ready to surrender the tense and taut plot threads of lust and history that bound them inextricably together, Francis slid from the couch and moved towards the door, gathering his things in a silence made heavy with guilt and glory, lust and loathing. He drew out his act of defeat until his fingers ghosted over the handle of the door, a secret smile spreading over his face as he turned to find Jos watching him once more. He met the wild flare of hate and wanting in Jos’ momentarily naked expression and decided it was finally the moment to press his advantage. 

Francis smiled, the taste of victory rich on his tongue. “I have told many lies, my darling. I told lies then, I have told lies now, and I will tell them again. But what I said to you tonight was true. I have loved none but you.”

And though the sound of his body meeting the door frame seemed to crack more loudly than the rat-a-ta-tat of Chicago’s guns, Francis could feel nothing but the searing absolution as Jos bit at his mouth and tore at his clothes, the orange petals of Jos’ flower crushed by the violence of his touch. He moaned and offered himself readily, winding arms around a taut and trembling neck, rolling his hips, sighing as bit his lips in the first brush of matching desire.

At once Jos broke away, cursing in a language Francis had forgotten how to understand, robbing Francis of answers to questions he had yet to ask with the tips of his fingers and the curl of his tongue.  The wonderful punishment of his grip loosened, the lines of the body pressed against Francis’ melting into something infinitely more dangerous and familiar.

He stilled as Jos nuzzled against his throat, intimate and close with fingers running gently through the ruin of his hair. The rocking of his hips against Francis’ cock slowing to the point of a tease, as though Jos had all the time in the world to be with Francis like this, devastatingly gentle and reminiscent.

And Francis had no choice but to return the sweetness of such a kiss as this, warm and soft like memory and mourning, one that could be as cruel as a knife when wielded by hands that had once known him so well, hands that now held him as though he were still secretly treasured, hands that swept up and down the wrinkles of his torn shirt to cup his jaw and deepen their embrace.

In the wake of his defeat, Jos broke their kiss only to brush his lips over the flush of yearning splashed on Francis’ cheeks and whisper with vicious kindness, “And in spite of that, you still valued yourself above all.”

Francis opened his eyes and pushed into the welcome of Jos’ arms, tumbling them both to the floor to curl into the still angry curve of his throat, sighing as Jos surged over him, forcing him prostrate and willing beneath the forceful arch of his body, pushing shamelessly into the hand that slipped into his pants.

He traced a finger over the swell of Jos’ victorious smile, gasping as Jos dragged his palm down the hard and hot skin of his cock, the touch not so long gone he had forgotten what it felt like when they were like this, answering the taunt in Jos’ gaze with a whispered, “My darling, as though you would have me any other way.”

Jos’ almost silent gasp gave him away as surely as the momentary tightening of the hand around him, their shared weakness for the darkness in the other spurring the words that Francis let flow freely now even as his breath hitched and broke around  every too soft stroke of Jos’ fingers on his cock.

“Think of it, my darling,” he cajoled as Jos unbuttoned his own pants and spread his knees wider over Francis’ thighs. Jos gaze narrowed with with lust and something just on the other side of hatred. “Think of all that we have between us now.”

He licked his lips and tried to push up, wanting to take Jos into his mouth and feel that heat down his throat but Jos pinned him down, twisting his hand over his own cock, entirely composed but for the breathless parting of his lips as he stroked them both, steady and certain as ever.

“You are a kingpin in the making,” Francis gasped, struggling to keep his eyes open and trained on the rare and much missed beauty of Jos coming undone, wondering what once upon another time could have been enough to give up such a treasure. “And I am protected and powerful.”

Jos started at him and finally quickened his strokes, leaning down to kiss Francis slowly and deeply, as if seeking out the lies so often hidden between his lips, breaking away just as Francis sighed and spilled into his palm to whisper, “So?”

Francis watched through the lingering haze of completion as Jos returned his hand to his cock, reaching out to touch his fingers to the slick white sliver of exposed skin of his hip, feeling debauched and decimated when Jos breathed out his name and came over his shirt.

With greedy hands, he pulled Jos into the messy tangle of his limbs, intertwining sticky fingers and sweetening his offer with countless kisses, murmuring into the curve of Jos’ shoulder, “So, there is no reason we cannot be together now. Why we could not share this town and all its illicit bounty.”

He smiled into the answering honey of Jos’ kiss, an embrace that mirrored the strawberry spice of the wine Jos had given to him, both a threat and a token of affection. He hummed with satisfaction as Jos sighed and kissed him ever more softly until his lips did no more than brush over Francis’, all temptation and unfulfilled expectation.

“You are a costly risk.”

Francis laughed and clung to the warmth and ease of Jos’ body, lifting his head just enough to kiss the scar he had just met. “Is there any other kind worth taking?”

Jos laughed, startling him out of his languid repose with the sudden bite of his fingers and the tightening of his embrace. There was no mistaking his certainty as he pinned Francis to the floor and promised, “This time, I think I shall take an insurance policy to mitigate that risk.”

“Insurance?” Francis questioned lightly, though he could feel the trap of Jos’ careful planning as surely as the grip of Jos’ fingers around his wrist.

Jos’ face was shadowed and beautiful in the dim light of the hotel room. “If you cross me, if you even daydream of going against me, I will kill Carriedo and make it seem as though it was done by your hand. I think you’ll find,  _ darling, _ that you are not the only one with men in your pocket. You should consider that Sicilians are irritatingly emotional and it would not be hard to persuade Vargas to come for you, no matter the cost to him personally. And as Vargas is a fool in love, his rage would be your death.” Jos’ smile was cruel against his cheek as he said, “Unless, of course, I should choose to protect you out of the goodness of my heart.”

_ I love you _ , Francis thought as Jos looked down at him, holding his life within his hands, challenging Francis to take up the game between them once more.

“You play very rough, my darling,” Francis murmured, kissing the palm that dragged over his mouth and smothered his breath.

Jos smiled once more, baring his teeth and stroking Francis’ throat in a mockery of affection. “You would not have me any other way.”


	6. Sweetness Corrupted (France, Netherlands)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude.

The air was cool against the lingering dampness of his skin, chilling the ends of hair still wet from the bath he’d stolen while Jos had disappeared down the hotel hallway, doubtless to tell his angry eyed watchdog to leave him be for the evening -- that this night he would be dining in. Francis sighed and stretched, pressing into the softness of the mattress as cruel fingers pulled the sheet from his shoulders, dragging it slowly down to reveal the nakedness of his back, and leave him at the mercy of Jos’ mouth whispering over the lovely burns he had earned from the luxury of being almost fucked on the hotel rug. Jos’ lips were warm and dry, brushing up the length of his spine and rousing him from the pleasure of half-sleep, reminding him of the countless mornings he had once spent indulging in a dangerous romance. 

The feeling of long fingers dipping below the covers to trace idle patterns over the swell of his thighs woke him more fully, warming the rumble in his chest and the slow spread of his smile into the fold of the pillow. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jos murmured in his ear, jaw moving roughly against his neck. 

“I’ve no business more pressing than this,” Francis returned, letting his legs fall further open to invite Jos between them, gratified as he felt the mattress shift to accommodate the fullness of Jos’ weight.

“And if I should have better things to do?” Jos whispered, lips moving over the slope of his back once more, hands kneading at the curve of his bottom, lazy and certain.

Francis smiled and turned his head just enough to peer at Jos in the dim light of the bedroom, enjoying the pale loveliness of his bare chest rising and falling with his breath. He let his eyes trace the lines of Jos’ throat up to the silver-fine scar above his eye, reminding Francis that this present moment was as dangerous as any long ago time spent in ramshackle New York apartment. 

“Then I would simply stay here and wait for you to come back and finish what you are so clearly starting, my darling,” Francis purred, arching his hips just enough to let Jos’ hand pass underneath. 

He shivered at the scrape of teeth and the sudden slip of a finger inside, just deep enough to be a promise unfulfilled, sighing prettily to sweeten the incentive for Jos to keep playing this game.

“You are as presumptuous as ever,” Jos answered, even as Francis heard the tell-tale sound of pants shuffling loose from long legs. “You do not even consider that  there are those who would prefer I not be in bed with Chicago’s premier newsman of ill-repute.”

Francis pouted and rolled his hips, disappointed when Jos took his hands away and he was left unfilled and wanting.  “Your wild-eyed enforcer doesn’t approve of his boss’ evening entertainment? I’m offended, my darling. Most would consider my company the height of society.”

Jos laughed bitterly, a dangerous and unfamiliar sound that drifted over the bones of his shoulder and through the mess of his hair. “Most do not know you as I do.”

Francis hummed and turned his face to meet Jos’ kiss, still so soft and cloying, a mockery of affection. He whispered into the parting of Jos’ mouth, “And yet you are still here, my treasure. No matter what counsel you’ve received. In this way you are very much like your cranky Italian distributor.” 

Jos bit the corner of his mouth, punishing him with the sudden stretch of two slick fingers inside, spreading and twisting until Francis was panting and trying to push up onto his knees, only to still at the tongue that left his lips to press temptation just above the fold of the sheet. 

“They are brothers, you know, Vargas’ bodyman and mine,” Jos informed him casually, distracting Francis from the thrill of Jos’ lips trailing lower, awakening the part of him--the inner journalist that never really slept--with such an unexpected revelation.

“Are they? How interesting,” Francis said breathlessly, stretching his body to encourage Jos to continue tasting him, to not stop the delicate path of his tongue. “And where did you manage to find such an enthusiastic protector?” 

Francis painted the bedroom walls with his moans, expressing his enthusiasm for the teeth abrading the skin of his thigh. His pleasure was so colorful, so rich, that he was almost deaf to the cool rebuke murmured between his legs.

“Prison.” 

“Did he give you that scar?” Francis asked, unable to help himself from wanting to hoard every little piece of Jos’ history, to know who it was that had touched him when Francis had left him alone and unmanaged. 

“Where’s the fun in telling?” Jos taunted, echoing Francis’ dismissal of hours before, and leaving him desperate in more than one way.

Whatever questions may have been within the air in his lungs, in the endless queue of his curiosity were lost to the sensation of Jos’ mouth pressed against him, taunting and gentle as he kissed the fingers that moved too slowly inside, the wild, warm desire of Jos so casually intimate driving him to the point of distraction. He let thoughts of Vargases and Germans and the ever expanding web of Chicago intrigue fade in the wake of Jos’ cool, persistent, passion. And when at last Jos had tired of his sighs and the insistent, greedy writhing of his hips and pushed inside, so hard and hot and wonderful, Francis was filled with both pleasure and possibility, past and present and future intertwining as surely as the fingers laced together on the pillow. 

“You must be careful, my darling,” Francis whispered breathlessly, squeezing the hands that held him down. 

“Of?” Jos murmured against his throat, rough and broken, though Francis could still hear the thread of control beneath the desire, a talent he had not so readily possessed in the days before betrayal.

“Making me fall in love with you once more,” Francis answered sweetly, craning his neck to kiss the angry swallow of Jos’ Adam’s apple, undeterred from his pleasure when Jos  snapped his hips and smothered him beneath the weight of his chest.

“I don’t need your love to achieve my goals,” Jos answered over the shameless ripples of Francis’ moans. 

“No,” Francis said with rich, vicious delight, struggling against the firmness of Jos’ grip as Jos came with a passion that teetered into violence. “But you want it nonetheless.”


	7. The Bitterness of Loyalty (Prussia and Germany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joys of brotherly love...

It was dark, raining, and cold. Exactly the kind of evening that Ludwig generally found to be the ideal time for some lowbrow mobster with ambitions of power to make an attempt on a Vargas, and yet for the first time in the two weeks since he had witness Feliciano’s transformation into a man who made threats on another man’s life, he was banished from the Plum Lounge with explicit orders (delivered with that same pouting and stubborn mouth that he could never tell no) to go home. Feliciano had ignored his every insistence that he not be left alone while Boss Vargas was visiting his “clients” with the loud American in possession of a badge and access, lips pursed around his assurance that Ludwig was going to be good and go sleep in his bed, instead of on the couch in the office. 

It wasn’t that he enjoyed sleeping on a sofa too small for a man of his size or being greeted every morning with Vargas’ suspicion and muttered threats that watch dogs better know their place and not be creeping into sleep at the foot of certain beds, but Ludwig had been uneasy since that evening with Carriedo, only too aware of the heightened tension in Vargas’ meetings with his terse Dutch distributor and the conspicuous Dane lingering outside the bar, watching the comings and goings. Change was in the air as a rule Ludwig considered change about as welcome as warm beer and the idea of Feliciano alone and unprotected. 

But Feliciano had dismissed his concerns, as he always did—with a smile that made his cheeks warm unnecessarily for a man of his age and experience—blithely explaining that Ludwig looked like he was about to fall into his bowl of pasta and that he needn’t fuss so much because it made his handsome face look so sour and sad. As soon as Feliciano began remarking on the relative merits of his appearance, Ludwig abandoned his argument, unwilling to endure any more of the unsettling twists in his chest when Feliciano looked at him like  _ that _ , like he might have an inkling of the horrible thoughts Ludwig sometimes entertained late at night when Tino had been too heavy handed with the pours and his imagination was left to its own devices. So he had left Feliciano in the dubious care of some of Vargas’ other minions, barking instructions not to allow Feliciano beyond the doors of the club or out of their line of sight upon pains of certain death should anything come to befall the Vargas family while he was on ordered bed rest.

Free now from the shadows and suspicions of the Plum Lounge, left alone with his heavy thoughts in the damp and cold, Ludwig could not help but worry about what he had left behind, not trusting the quiet of a Chicago night to treat anyone with much kindness. And in the moment that he opened the door to his small, ordered apartment, musty and dark from weeks of abandonment, distracted by desultory daydreams of Feliciano, Ludwig knew that tonight he had been wasting all of his worry on the wrong person.

“Well, well, the prodigal brother returns,” A dry, familiar voice murmured from the corner of his tiny kitchen. Ludwig blinked until he could make out sharp features, a once familiar face illuminated only by the dim light from the window. 

Ludwig swallowed his surprise, knowing that Gilbert would have disapproved of such obvious weakness, warily hanging his coat. “Would you not be the more appropriate choice for that role, Brother?” 

Gilbert cackled and pushed off the wall, stalking slowly towards him, wicked grin giving away little but his displeasure, setting Ludwig’s teeth on edge as he said, “Once upon a time I’d have said so, but it seems little Luddy wants to give Big Brother a run for his money these days.” 

Ludwig could not disguise his flinch when Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder and shoved him towards one of the rickety chairs in kitchen, muttering, “I think it's about time you and I had a chat about duty and obligation, bruderlein.” 

“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” Ludwig mumbled, wondering how it was he could be made to feel all of six years by a man he had not seen in seven years and who hadn't spoken to him once in all the times their paths had crossed since he came striding into the Plum Lounge two months ago and spat on the floor in fury when he realized what had become of his younger brother in his absence.

Gilbert scoffed and flicked his ear, just as he had when Ludwig was a child trying to keep up with his wild and determined sibling in the streets of Berlin. “We’re brothers. Even when we’re not talking, we’re still talking.” 

“That makes no sense,” Ludwig grumbled, though it gladdened him to know that he had not disappointed his once great protector so gravely as to be banished forever from his strange and dangerous affection, “But even so, I am pleased to see you.” 

“Of course you are,” Gilbert blustered, turning away to fumble with the single light, casting the room in gloomy shadow as it flickered on, “I would have come sooner, but the Boss sent me up North to handle some business. Though I bet a glass of good beer he just got sick of listening to my very wise and excellent opinions on his choice of moll.” 

“I see,” Ludwig agreed, though he had no idea why Gilbert, who had always been more interested in violence than the fairer sex, would be concerned with Van Rijn’s consort. 

Furthermore, he wondered and had wondered since the first moments of their awkward and unexpected reunion how it was that his brother, a proud German who did not take kindly to the yoke of others, had come to dog the footsteps of a cold and mercenary man like Van Rijn.

He peered up at Gilbert, taking in his anxious energy and the tightness in his expression, and risked the tentative peace to ask, “Why are you working for him?” 

Gilbert slammed his hand on the counter, rattling the carefully organized jars of spices that Feliciano had pressed into his arms the day he had moved in, insisting that he needed to have such things for a happy home and hearth, and snapped, “My reasons are neither here nor there, sweet little Ludwig. We’re not here to question Brother Gilbert’s life choices.” 

Ludwig stiffened and sat up straighter as Gilbert circled him with impatient tension, laughing bitterly when Ludwig asked, quite reasonably, “Then why did you break into my home to sit in my kitchen in the dark?” 

“Because, idiot brother mine, I’m very very upset with you,” Gilbert answered plainly, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at Ludwig with such disapproval, it was almost as though they were back in the shambles of their tiny Berlin apartment in the early days of the Great War, when Ludwig had cried at the thought of his big brother leaving him to fight. 

“You do not understand.” Ludwig struggled to explain, affronted and ashamed, “It was not my intent to work for Vargas and I have never deliberately disobeyed your orders.” 

“Then you better have a good excuse for why I get out of prison hoping to hear that my adorable little Ludwig has made something of himself in this land of opportunity, only to find that he’s fucked it all up and gone and made the very choices his brother told him not to,” Gilbert barked, the concern and disappointment in the snarl of his mouth grating at Ludwig’s frayed and tired nerves. 

“It is a matter of loyalty,” Ludwig said slowly, remembering those dark and difficult days after the war as the decade turned to twenty, when Gilbert had told him he’d done all he could to keep Ludwig safe, but now he had to make a move or end up dead. 

“To Romano Vargas?” Gilbert asked doubtfully, his sneer saying all that needed to be said on the matter of Ludwig’s employer.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ludwig answered firmly, trying not to think of the soft smiles and softer hands that divided his loyalties further with every passing day.

“He had better have done something worthy of you, Luddy,” Gilbert threatened needlessly, slumping against the counter with loud sigh, “To be worthy of all the potential I so carefully made sure wasn’t fucking wasted.” 

Annoyed by the constant reminder of his supposed failure, Ludwig risked insubordination,  “Why the sudden interest in me now, Brother?

Gilbert snapped his fingers, growling lowly, “Don’t take that tone with me, little one. I’ve always been keenly interested. I was just otherwise occupied with being incarcerated during the time you apparently adopted a life of crime.” 

Ludwig sighed and pinched his nose in frustration, tired from weeks of endless vigilance and exhausted by the burn of his brother’s unrelenting scrutiny after ten minutes of exposure, “I meant why come here tonight, when you’ve known I was in Chicago for two months.” 

“Because whether I wanted it for you or not, you’ve gotten yourself tied up in what’s certain to become a big fucking mess,” Gilbert said, sounding somehow weary, for all that he remained tense and alert against Ludwig’s kitchen counter, “And I thought you should know what you’ve signed up for, brother mine.”

“Has something changed?” Ludwig asked reluctantly, uncertain if he wanted all his nagging concerns and fears confirmed by a man who was not prone to optimistic outlooks on even the sunniest of days. 

Gilbert hummed and cast him a look full of dark intent. “Like I said, the Boss has gone and tangled himself up with the worst sort of trouble.” 

“Explain,” Ludwig requested, not remembering any prior mention of any such thing, worried that he had somehow missed a key tactical point.

Gilbert slapped the side of his face, gripping his chin between the calloused points of his fingers, tsk-tsking with irritating smugness. “Pay attention or you’re going get balled up, Little Brother. The French connection warming the Boss’ sheets, a sneaky fucker with his fingers in every one’s pockets and his filthy words in all the right ears, he’s got the potential to bring the whole damned city to its knees.” 

“After all, he’s the one who sent in the Spanish pretty boy to chase your Mr. Vargas,” Gilbert finished with quiet relish, clearly enjoying the slow realization splashed over Ludwig’s face as he put the pieces of the puzzle together, “And that was just a trifling thing to get my Mr. Van Rijn to pay him attention.” 

“You’re worried,” Ludwig said, astonished to find that even after all these years and the palpable discontent between them, his brother still apparently cared enough to break into his home and set him on the path to safety, no matter how poorly lit or paved the state of his current road. 

Gilbert scoffed, as though the insinuation of such weakness was anathema, protesting angrily, “Fuck worry. Its practicality, bruderlein, and the struggle for men like us to survive in a world this this. When I think of what the snake charmer could do now that the Boss is feeling goofy enough to give him even a small taste of what we’ve got going on in this town, I wonder if it might not be better to spare us all and put a bullet between his eyes.”

Ludwig shot to his feet, gripping Gilbert’s collar with open upset as he asked, “If this man is as important to Van Rijn as you imply, what would he do to you if he found out that you were responsible for his death?”

“You tell me, Luddy,” Gilbert sneered, shoving him away. “What would you do?”

Ludwig flushed, unbidden and violent thoughts of Feliciano come to harm flashing through his mind, making him see momentary, unrestrained red and clearly giving himself away under his brother’s watchful gaze.

“Heh, I see someone’s gone and grown up,” Gilbert murmured, before clearing his throat and closing the distance between them. “But, yeah, I imagine that even though I’d being doing him a favor, Van Rijn wouldn’t be too happy with me if I disassembled his toy just after he’d found it again.”

“Then why even say such a thing?” Ludwig pressed, heart still stuck somewhere in his throat, rife with unanticipated anxiety, knowing that for all his antics, Gilbert never mentioned a plan that was anything but premeditated and under consideration. 

Gilbert smiled thinly and flicked his ear once more, calm and entirely serious as he promised, “Because I’ll do whatever it takes to protect what’s important, Little Brother. No matter what you think…my loyalty has never been divided.” 

Ludwig swallowed and bowed his head to rest against the sharp bones of his brother’s shoulder, wondering how it had all turned out like this. 


End file.
